The Tears of the Lilac Rain
by firestorm26cmktellstales
Summary: Sequel of "The Ivy of the Burning Winter." After leaving London to be together, Sherlock and John have found their lives placed perfectly together in Paris. For nearly a year, it is just the two of them and Redbeard; with nothing more to do than love. But there is always an oncoming Winter to take away the splendor of the summer.
1. Paris: The City of Love

The white sheets tangled around the length of Sherlock's legs as he stared into the magnificent hazel green eyes gleaming back at him. The way they sparkled against the shimmering sun put Sherlock into overdrive.

John could feel Sherlock's warm breath slowly brush against his face as the feel of his fingers gently stroked his cheek. "Kiss me." Sherlock said as John's face gradually moved in closer to his own.

"Patience dear" John replied as their lips painfully hovered each other.

"je t'aime" Sherlock said while he tugged at the base of John's ashen blonde hair.

As John opened his mouth to speak, the sound of a creaking door caught his attention. Both him and Sherlock turned their heads to the sight of a wet snout trying to push its way through.

"I think someone wants you" John said as he watched Redbeard patter into the room. His tail wagged uncontrollably as it swept the hardwood floor, leaving traces of ginger fur behind.

"Yes. I think you're right."

Sherlock swiftly planted a quick kiss onto John's lips as he watched him slide away from his body. "I think we should go out." Sherlock said as he watched John pull on his pants.

"Out? Where do you have in mind?"

"Maybe we could go to the new café down the road?"

"With Redbeard I assume?"

"Ofcourse."

Sherlock reached for his clothes which laid in a coiled puddle on the floor. As he pulled on his fabric he felt Redbeard's soft fur rub against his skin. "Hang on a minute, Redbeard." Sherlock said as he pulled on one of his black shoes. Sherlock's hand searched the floor for the other shoe as Redbeard impatiently nuzzled at his skin.

"It's been a long time since I've seen him so excited." John said.

"Perhaps he likes this new lifestyle as much as we do."

John chuckled at Sherlock's remark as he waited for him and Redbeard to be by his side.

* * *

><p>The café was spacious and quite classy. Sherlock, John and Redbeard sat at a small round table outside as they waited for their tea to arrive.<p>

"This is quite nice. Quite nice indeed." John said as he gazed at his surroundings.

"Mhm. It sure is. Beautiful in fact."

John slowly put his hand underneath the table where he met with Sherlock's. They gently threaded their fingers together, using the table as their disguise. "John. Stop it." Sherlock said while trying not to chuckle. "We're in public."

John smirked as he held Sherlock's hand within his own. "That's never stopped us before." He soon replied with a mischievous grin. John couldn't help but smile when he was with Sherlock. It felt like that everything which was wrong in the world suddenly disappeared, leaving nothing but clarity and tranquillity behind in its wake.

The waitress who served them walked out of the cafe holding two mugs. As she quickly approached the two men, they swiftly let go of each other, pretending like nothing had ever happened.

* * *

><p>Sherlock wrapped his lips around the rim of his mug as John began to speak.<p>

"French. I don't know much of the language yet."

"No. You don't. Would you like to learn?" Sherlock offered as he slowly placed his cup of tea back onto its porcelain saucer.

"You want to teach me French?"

"Of course I want to teach you."

John snickered as he took a sip of his tea. "I thought you only knew the basics."

"Vous êtes tout à fait tort." Sherlock replied with a smirk.

The birds at the café chirped in the nearby trees as the leaves gently fell to the ground. The pavement below them was smooth as the clouds above looked rough. They could feel the wind blowing against their faces as the both of them finished the last of their tea.

Sherlock leaned over to pat Redbeard as he felt John's leg gently rub against his own. Sherlock tried not to let a smirk escape his face as he thoroughly scratched the fur behind Redbeard's ear. "John-"

"What? Don't you like it?" John whispered with amusement as his body leaned over the table.

"I think it's safe to say that you know the answer to that."

John folded his arms over his chest as he leaned back into his chair. "And tell me the answer one more time." He said whilst waiting for Sherlock's reply.

Sherlock rose onto his feet, dusting off his pants as a slight distraction. As he attached the leash to Redbeard's collar he locked his eyes onto John's swirling galaxy of green as he spoke. "You have chosen the wrong adjective, John."

"How so?"

"Well, multiple words would have made a suitable substitute ." Sherlock said as he paused for a moment. "Love for example would of been a perfect word to use."

John couldn't help but feel slightly embarrassed. He could feel his face blushing into a hot tone of red as he nervously began to shake and stutter his words. "I-I think we should head back home now."

"Already?" Sherlock said. "But I thought the compliments were just getting started."

John rose out of his chair as he tried to hide his blushing face. "Don't worry- they are. I have many more to give you, but perhaps the adjectives I want to use will not be appropriate for public hearing."

Sherlock chuckled at John's remark as they walked down the sidewalk together, the both of them resisted the painful urge of threading their fingers together, so they could finally be hand in hand. Redbeard walked in-between the two as they made their way home. They tried not to touch each-other until they were finally within the privacy of their own home, but their short walk felt like an eternity.


	2. It Could all Crumble -It Could all Break

Home was simple. They lived in the downstairs flat of a building that was built in the 14th Century, and then rebuilt after the Revolution. The walls were a pale yellow, and when the sun shone in through their window it made an incandescent glow that sent their shadows scattering across the floor. The living room and the bedroom were one in the same; divided by the separation of a lounge on one side and a bed on the other. There was a small kitchen through a swinging door, and the bathroom was shared down the hallway with the other tenants of the building; an elderly woman who lived with her three parrots, and liked to tell Sherlock and John stories of her and her husband and bring them sweets. There was also a younger woman, a few years passed eighteen who lived on the very top flat. She was an actress at one of the theatres, and she spent a great deal of time waiting for the both of them on the doorstep to the building just to give them a smile.

It was less than Sherlock ever had his entire life, but it was also more than he ever thought he could have. His funding from his father had been cut off, but Sherlock had his own money tucked away that he brought with; combined with what John had been saving up himself, it was enough for them to laze around a few years together, taking odd jobs here and there.

The moment the door closed behind them, John's hands and lips were all over Sherlock. Sherlock fumbled with taking the leash off from Redbeard while maintaining contact with John.

"Now who needs patience?" Sherlock asked.

John laughed, and captured Sherlock's mouth over and over again. When Sherlock finally unhooked the leash from Redbeard's collar and heard him scamper away to find the water dish, he brought his hands to the back of John's head, pulling him closer. Their feet tangled within one another as they made their way across the room and fell down into the bed. Their curtains were still closed from the night before, to make sure no one passing by was able to see into their life.

While everything felt perfect in their little corner of Paris, it wasn't quite. They still had to hide, had to pretend that they didn't love each other when in fact, they were bursting with love.

They had fallen back onto the unmade bed, wrapped in each other. John nipped at Sherlock's neck, and Sherlock's fingers found the skin underneath his lovers shirt.

"Say something." John whispered against Sherlock's throat. "Anything."

Sherlock pulled John's shirt above his head, and tossed it to the floor below them. He traced a path up the center of his chest until he had his hands on either side of John's cheeks, and lifted his head away from the crevice of his own neck.

"J'adore votre visage , John Watson." he said. "Vos yeux , votre nez ; votre bouche"

He emphasised each word with a kiss, and made John's lips his own as a final proclamation. They knelt in front of each other, tasting and touching every part they could find of the other as if they were doing it for the first time.

This was life. It was waking and resting in the arms of the other. It was watching the sun rise, and leaving the clothes they hardly even wore in piles on the floor. It was John reading aloud by candlelight while Redbeard rested across Sherlock's lap, nuzzling into the small space left between the two men's legs. It was drinking tea, and trying to make a soup without giving up altogether and making love on the kitchen floor.

"I love you, Sherlock."

"I love you too."

* * *

><p>It was a knocking on the door that roused Sherlock from his sleep. He wrapped himself in a dressing gown, pulled the covers up over John and threw a blanket on the lounge, in case whoever was fetching after one of them made a point to look around the flat, and notice the obvious absence of a second bed for a second man.<p>

Sherlock opened the door after the second knock. There was a young boy, holding a satchel, and an envelope in his hand.

"Monsieur Holmes?" He asked.

"Yes."

The young boy held out the envelope for Sherlock to take.

"A letter for you."

"Thank you."

Sherlock took the letter, and reached behind him to the shelf behind the door to hand the boy a small gold coin for his troubles. The boy nodded and put it deep in his trouser pocket before turning and leaving. Sherlock closed the door, and brought the letter to the table in front of the lounge, where he sat down.

It was addressed from his mother.

Two months after he and John settled into the flat, he wrote her a letter to tell her where he was, and try and explain why he left in the first place. She never wrote him back, and he was starting to not expect to hear anything. At the same time he wrote her the letter, he wrote several dozen to Irene, only he never mailed a single one of them. In most he confessed that he knew about their child-to-be, and admitted to being a coward. In one, he even confessed his love for John. But in the end, he held their corners to the flame of a candle and watched them burn away.

Sherlock gently opened the edge of the envelope and pulled out the letter inside.

* * *

><p><em>Darling Sherlock,<em>

_I do hope that Paris is treating you well. No doubt you'll find something to use your talents toward. _

_I wish that I was writing this letter with glad tidings, but I'm afraid that isn't the case._

_You see, just after you left, Irene announced that she was to be having a child; that you were meant to be a father. A part of me believes that you knew this, as there isn't much you don't know, but another part of me wishes to believe that you didn't know, and if you had, you would have stayed and worked out whatever you issues were with Irene. _

_That, however, is of no matter anymore. Shorty after your daughter, Cora, was born Irene took her last breath. It was a difficult labour for her. Cora is healthy, and she is beautiful. I see a great deal of her mother in her face, but I also see a great deal of you; not just in looks, but in her little personality as well. Irene's parents are caring for her as it should be with the absence of both of her parents. _

_I'm not expecting anything from you, Sherlock; no one is, as you have made it perfectly clear that we have expected too much from you for too long, but I did think it was important you know that your wife has died, and that your daughter has been born._

_With love, _

_EMH_

* * *

><p>Sherlock let the letter fall down to the tabletop. He thought, in the quiet moments when John was asleep, and he was not, about Irene and the child that she would be having, the child that was his, and whom he abandoned before he ever had the chance to know them; to know her. But Sherlock had been confident that it was still for the best; that Irene would have the marriage dissolved and would re-marry, and she would have the proper family she deserved.<p>

But Irene never got that chance, and Sherlock couldn't help but feel angry at himself for letting her die lonely and scared.

John was rousing in the bed on the other side of the room. Sherlock quickly folded up the letter and tucked it into the cushion of the couch.

"Sh'lock?"

John's sleepy voice carried over to Sherlock's ears, and he crossed over to him.

"Did I hear the door?" He asked.

"Yes. It was just Mrs. Verux; she's making biscuits; wanted to know if we'd like some when she's finished."

"Oh."

John sat up. The sheet Sherlock covered him up with fell down from his chest and pooled into his lap. He smiled, and reached his hand out to pull Sherlock back into the bed.

"I thought you were going to teach me French?"

"Well, you keep asking me to, and then every time I try, it isn't exactly my mouth you're paying attention to."

John, with Sherlock's hand still in his, slid himself over so that he was sitting in Sherlock's lap, their foreheads resting against each other.

"I'm always paying attention to your mouth, Sherlock."

He slid their lips gently together. It was barely a kiss; just a ghosting of their lips, and of their souls. Sherlock threaded his fingers through John's hair. It was getting long, and needed a cut, but it felt magnificent between the pads of his fingertips. John's eyes were closed, but Sherlock' were open, and he kept looking to the lounge where he stuffed the letter, and thinking about what it had said; thinking about the death of a woman he had found a trace of love for even if it wasn't the kind he was meant to have. He was thinking about the little girl that he would never know. He thought that he would be better off not knowing, and he knew that she would be better off without him.

But he couldn't help but feel something; something he didn't expect to feel.


	3. A Lesson in French

The both of them interlocked their fingers together, feeling their every ounce of love for one another radiate from their every word. They could almost capture the words, swallowing them as if all meaning was lost and nonexistent.

"It's fairly obvious you know the basics." Sherlock began as he stared John in the eyes. "And I have probably not taught you anywhere near as much then I should have."

"Well, if this is where we're going to be spending the rest of our lives, I think it's only logical if I become fluent in the language, and don't worry I plan too."

John smiled as they continued holding hands on the bed. Sherlock wanted to infest himself in this gorgeous moment, but he couldn't, he just couldn't stop his brain from thinking about that letter. The contents it held, and the information which he wish he never read kept thumping inside his brain like a god forsaken curse. All he wanted to do was rip those words and that memory right out of his head, and burn them the same way he burnt Irene's letters. Only if it could be that simple.

Sherlock's lips hovered over John's ear as the feel of his breath reminded him of the faint, cool wind. His fingers reminding him of a tree branch extending out and touching him, with slow, subtle strokes. "Body parts, John. We'll start with body parts." Sherlock whispered with closed eyes as John sucked in a deep breath, dropping his head back onto a nonexistent surface.

"Repeat after me, John" Sherlock whispered. "Oreille"

John opened his mouth to speak, his words only latching onto his vocal cords, trying to escape with his every breath. "O-oreille" he finally managed in an exasperated breath.

"And what does that mean exactly?" John asked while Sherlock's mouth nuzzled at his earlobe.

"Use my mouth as a guide." Sherlock said as he softly trailed his way down John's jugular. "Cou"

John smiled as he grasped Sherlock's curls within the palm of his hand. "I can only assume that's French for neck?" John said as he felt the weight of Sherlock's breath cascade down the length of his shirt.

"Oui." Sherlock replied with a smirk as his mouth never left John's skin for a second.

Sherlock's lips travelled down to John's shirt, kissing his sternum in slow but deliberate pecks. "la poitrine" He said as he felt John's hands slowly move along his hipbones, escaping into the warmth of his shirt.

"Tell me.." John began as he slipped his fingers into the waist of Sherlock's pants. "What does this translate into?"

John rubbed slow but prominent circles along the area of Sherlock's groin. He let out a quiet moan as he tried to adjust himself, suddenly feeling a wave of emotion flood in over him. He stared at the cushion where his letter hid, suddenly feeling its every haunting words replay in his head like a tape recording.

John placed a hand over Sherlock's heart. Its erratic beating melody put his mind into an instant worry. He bowed his head against Sherlock's, staring into his beautiful blue eyes as they paid no attention to him; they only stared off into the distance.

"Sherlock..what's the matter?" John questioned with concern evident in his voice.

"No-nothing." Sherlock said.

His eyes became aligned with John's as they stared at each-other. "Vous ne comprendriez pas." He whispered before finally capturing John's mouth within his own. His hands slowly guided John down onto the bed as they madly kissed each-other, not breaking contact for a minute.

"What was that you just said?" John asked. "It was too long to be a body part."

"I didn't say anything, John." Sherlock lied as he distracted John with his roaming hands.

John stretched his neck out so Sherlock could suck on it with ease. The way his tongue slid over his taut skin caused his body to go into certain arousal.

"But you did. You said something-"

"John. Please. Can we just enjoy this time together? For so long we have been hiding, and now that we are behind closed doors, we can finally do what we want to each-other."

"Don't you think I know that? Sherlock everyday I wake up beside you, and I feel blessed that you're even there. If any small aspect of our time together back in England were to be different, there's a chance that we might not have even met." John paused for a moment as he let out a sigh of annoyance. "Sherlock, you married Irene, if we never met, you would still be in England. You would have a family."

The padding of Sherlock's fingers stopped John's voice in an instant. "I do have a family- you. And that's all I'm ever going to need."

As Sherlock spoke those words, he felt conflict eat away at him. What he said almost felt like a lie. He loved John with all his heart, he would die for him in a second without a second thought- he was certain about that. But after reading that letter, was running away with John really the answer?

"John..are you happy here?"

"Of course I am. I'm with you."

"And you don't regret running away with me?"

"Sherlock. If I had regrets...would I still be here?"

Sherlock reluctantly looked away, feeling John's eyes lock onto him like a hawk. John's fingers slowly wrapped their way around Sherlock's cheek, pulling his face closer towards his. "Sherlock, what's wrong? What's happened? I can't help you if you don't talk to me."

Sherlock closed his eyes, composing himself as he straightened out his back. He inhaled a deep breath, holding onto John's hands for extra support. "I don't know how else to say this. But, earlier today, I received a letter of importance. And it was not the bearer of good news."

"Sherlock...what did it say?" John asked while he tightly held the palms of Sherlock's hands. "Who sent it? No-one knows where we live."

"That's not entirely true. One person does- my Mother."

"Yes. But why would she write to you now? She has had months to write-"

Sherlock bowed his head with a sigh as he slowly clambered up onto his feet. John looked up at him with worry evident across his face as Sherlock took him by the hand. "Come with me John. Over to the lounge. There's something you need to see."


	4. Our Secrets Make us the Same

John read the letter at least three times before he lowered it against his side, and let out a deep sigh that sounded like he had been holding his breath the entire time.

"I'm sorry about Irene." he said. "I know you felt something for her, and Cora; it's a beautiful name she chose."

John fidgeted with the corners of the letter. Sherlock could hear the tiny sound it was making against the underside of his nail; it grated through into his ears, and clawed at his brain. He looked at John's face; at how perfectly calm he was, not a single one of his deep wrinkles disturbed, nothing looked out of place.

"I'd understand if you wanted to go back."

"Would you?" Sherlock asked, his voice low and vibrating deep in his throat.

"Of course I would. Your wife did die, you've had a daughter born. If you needed to go and see her, needed to make some sort of arrangements."

Sherlock laughed, "John Watson, you are the most understanding man I've ever met. Please stop it."

"Stop being understanding of our circumstances; stop being understanding of how confused and all around fucked up you are?"

"Confused? I'm not confused." Sherlock spat. "As I've never been normal, I don't like to follow the norms of society, but I did; I upheld everything my parents asked of me, because I was raised to do so. I had an image to maintain so that they could maintain an image, and I did it all with a smile, albeit a fake one, on my face."

"What are you trying to tell me?" John asked.

"I've always been living a lie. I was living a lie with Irene, and now I'm living a lie with you. I had to love her when I didn't want to and I can't love you when that's all I want to do. And you're so god damned understanding of everything!"

"Why does that upset you so much? Would you rather I was angry? Because I am, Sherlock! I'm angry, and I'm scared."

"Scared of what?"

"Scared that I'm going to lose you. That you're going to wise up and go back to London and be the proper man you were raised to be. You say that you aren't normal, but you are! You're just like everybody else in your station. The only reason you're here with me is because I was a convenient escape from your fears of marriage!"

Sherlock rose up from the couch and towered over John. Their chests were heaving in an angry unison, and their faces were flushed.

"Is that what you think?" he asked. "You believe I don't really love you?"

"Wouldn't it make things easier if you didn't?"

Sherlock took a moment to catch his breath, to watch the worry finally sweep across John's face, and break along his brow line. He watched John's eyes, unblinking, lock on his own face, and Sherlock started to soften and back away.

"It would, yes. But I do love you. When I married her, I was marrying you; you know that."

"I know."

John closed the small gap that was between them and tentatively reached out to take Sherlock's hand in his own.

"All I meant to say was that I understand about having a child. I understand how you can think that it isn't something you want, because it's scary, and it doesn't fit into the vision of your life."

"How is that something you understand so well?"

"Because, at one point in time, I was a father."

"You what?"

"I was never married to her, and I'm afraid to say that I don't know what happened to her and the child. But I remember wanting to flee just as you did. I suppose men have gone off to war over sillier things, yea? But none of that matters now."

Sherlock held onto John's hand tighter, and pulled him into his body.

"I didn't know." he said.

"You didn't have to until now."

"What should I do, John?"

"I don't know, love. That's something you have to figure out on your own."

Sherlock kissed the top of John's head, and let go of him. He pushed away and reached for his coat hanging on a hook in the wall. He slipped into it, and left the flat without a word to where he was going or when he would be back.

* * *

><p>It was chilly out as the sun was starting to set, and Sherlock walked down the sidewalks still full of artists at their easels, performers reciting monologues, and lovers sipping espresso at the cafes that lined the street. Even if Mycroft never told him that he would make a terrible father, Sherlock knew that was to be the case. Any sort of nurturing bone he had in his body was spent on Redbeard, and he feared that he couldn't spare anymore. He was also pretty sure that a baby needed a bit more than scratches behind the ears and a bowl of water. And Irene's parent's were capable; so were his own for that matter (he assumed that they would have a heavy role in Cora's upbringing). She would be cared for, educated well, and be a fine standing member of society. She would also likely be beautiful if she were to look anything like her mother, and that would fair her well as she grew older.<p>

She would be fine with them, just as Sherlock was fine. Raised right, raised well. Raised to do as she was told, and to put her own dreams in a box and keep them locked up. She would be smothered, and sad, and that really wasn't something Sherlock was sure he could live with; bestowing her the very childhood he hated, the childhood he was just not rebelling against. It took him twenty some odd years to find happiness, and to decide not to let it go. How long was it going to take Cora of he wasn't there to tell her she could have anything she wanted right from the beginning?


	5. Emotion is Stronger than Thought

Sherlock walked down the path as he looked into the sky. The sun was setting, letting the beautiful sunset glow. The colours were like none he had ever seen before. The oranges and pinks collided together, forming a beautiful sequence. The clouds looked so soft, until the wind gradually warped their shape, giving them new meaning.

Sherlock clenched his hands inside his pockets as he stared at the pavement. The leaves crunched underneath his shoes as he continued to walk, not being entirely sure as to where he was going.

His thoughts flooded his mind. Each thought caused a different ripple of emotion as conflictions ate away at his very core. Ever since he had met John it has been both the worst and best thing that had ever happened to him. Never did he think he could ever love someone as much as he does John, but hiding has taken a toll on him- even while in Paris, the pressure is still on. Hiding from homosexuality doesn't just disappear when you leave England, and now that a newborn child is in the picture, it just makes it all so much harder.

Sherlock sighed as his feet scuffed along the ground. The sun was setting quickly as he looked back into the sky. He stopped in his tracks as he peered over his shoulder, contemplating to himself whether or not to head back to the apartment for the night.

As the dark gradually grew. Sherlock could feel the cold breeze brush along his face as it sent shivers down the length of his arms. His curls blew against the strong force as he slowly began to turn on his heels of his shoes. As he stared down the path he had just walked up, he took one step forward, letting the pavement below guide his way back home.

* * *

><p>Sherlock slowly opened the door. Once he entered the room he was faced with John. He sat on the lounge, staring at Sherlock as he watched him hang his coat back on its hook.<p>

"I'm glad you're back. I was afraid I'd have to go looking for you." John said.

"I was coming back. I just needed time to think."

"And?"

Sherlock bowed his head with a sigh as he turned to look at John. "And I have come up with an idea. An idea you may not take lightly too."

John sat forward with crossed legs as he cupped his hands around his knees. The lines in his face expressed worry as he felt like the air around him evaporated into nothingness.

"Tell me Sherlock, what is it that you want?"

Sherlock looked away slightly, feeling a certain conflict eat away at him. He closed his eyes while taking a step forward, not knowing what John's reaction was going to be. He held John's hand within his own, stroking it gently as he stared into the roughness of his knuckles. "John." he began, taking in a deep breath as he painfully closed his eyes. "I have a daughter, and she is my daughter. And it was wrong of me to try and run away from such a responsibility." Sherlock said.

Before he could continue he felt John's grasp tighten around his palm which caused him to open his eyes. As he was met with John's glittering green eyes, he could only smirk in return as he sucked in another deep breath. "John. We can't stay here. We need to go back to England. We can't live our life like this."

Sherlock watched John, waiting for a reaction, for anything, but John just sat there frozen, in complete silence and disbelief. Sherlock could only move his body in closer, now using both his hands to hold John's as if it were a protective shield. "John? Are you okay?"

John licked his lips in attempt to quench his sudden thirst. He looked up into Sherlock's eyes as they stared back at him with worry. "Back to England? We're really going to go back?"

"Only if you want too. I do not want to pressure this upon you, but I can't leave Cora. I know how she is going to be raised, and my childhood is not a life I would burden upon anyone."

"Shit, Sherlock. I-I didn't think we would be leaving Paris for a long time. What are we going to do? We can't just go and see your parents. Don't you think they're going to be a bit suspicious that the two of us left England at the exact same time, and then the both of us miraculously return on the same day?"

"Don't worry. I have that figured out. My parents aren't going to know we're back. They're never going to know."

"What? Then how do you expect to find Cora?"

"I have only met Irene's parents a few times. But I know where they live, and as you read in the letter, they are the two who are going to be raising, Cora. And I have decided that is something I don't want.I want Cora to be raised with us. I want her to be modest, not materialistic. I want her to have a different view of life."

John moved his face in close to Sherlock's. Their lips met as John grinned against the rim of Sherlock's mouth. "Then that's what we're going to do. Whatever it takes, okay? I promise you."

Sherlock grinned against the firmness of John's lips as he pulled his face in closer to his own. They leaned their foreheads against one another as he slowly began to speak. "John Watson. You are going to make a brilliant parent. I can assure you of that." he said before finally kissing him in the comfort of their own home.


	6. Au revoir à Paris

"You are undeniably beautiful."

Sherlock shifted his weight in the bathtub, splashing water onto the floor. He searched around for the flannel and smoothed it over john's chest as he leaned against Sherlock, eyes closed, content smile on his face.

It was always a risk to share the tub with another, but in truth, no one at the boarder house seemed to mind that their neighbors were more friendly than two men should be, and it was their last night in Paris anyhow, so it didn't matter much.

"You're always on about how beautiful I am, but you seem to forget about yourself. Perhaps I don't tell you enough."

"Tell me now."

Sherlock smirked and dropped his head to leave a kiss on John's shoulder. He let the flannel disappear underneath them once again, and ran his hands over John's skin; across the expanse of his chest, down the length of his sides, and gently over his groin and the fair hair of his pubis.

John's breath hitched and Sherlock followed the trail back around John once again.

"You're so strong, all of these muscles underneath your skin. Sometimes I watch your profile when you've come from the bath or gotten out of bed, and it's breathtaking. The line of your frame, the gait of your step. There isn't a moment in any given day where I don't want to touch you."

John leaned his head against Sherlock's collarbone, sliding his back further down Sherlock's chest.

"There isn't a moment in any given day where I don't want to be touched by you." he said.

"Things will be different when we go back; I know, but I promise you, I'm yours."

"I know. I love you, Sherlock; I know that you love me."

"Mmm. Should we retire to bed now?" Sherlock asked.

"That's a grand idea."

John pushed himself from the tub, splashing water as he went, and stepped out. He wiped himself down with a towel, and watched Sherlock step out as well, and then empty the tub. They dried off, wrapped themselves in their dressing gowns, and quickly made it down the hallway back to their room.

With the door closed and locked, Sherlock untied the already loose strings of John's dressing gown and slid his fingers underneath the fabric, reaching around to glide his hands over John's arse. He crowded John against the wall, and kissed at John's neck. His skin was pleasantly warm underneath Sherlock's colds lips.

John let his gown fall to the floor, and pressed his hips against Sherlock's, reaching his fingers down to Sherlock's chin to bring his mouth up to his, and capture it. They kissed slow and languid, making sure to taste every corner. John gripped Sherlock's waist and walked him to the unmade bed. Sherlock's knees hit the mattress and he stumbled down onto it. John stood between Sherlock's parted knees, and slid his dressing gown off from his shoulders, and laid him down.

"I'm going to take you apart, Sherlock; slowly, deliberately, and then I'm going to put you back together piece by piece."

"What if I want to stay ruined by you?"

"I have to put you back together, so I can take you apart all over again."

Sherlock flung his arm upward and pulled John down hard on top of him, and kissed him. John caught himself; a hand on either side of Sherlock's head, and let Sherlock devour his mouth like it was the first time he had ever had the pleasure of doing so.

Their night progressed with moans and sighs escaping from the open window across from them. Sherlock trembled underneath John's touch, and John trembled in return at Sherlock's pleas for more. They tasted and nipped, and cried and whined, and came until their bodies couldn't take anymore, and they fell asleep, curled into one another.

* * *

><p>The train came early in the morning, the steam blowing against the ankles of their trousers. John and Sherlock gave the car attendant their tickets and found their way to their compartment. Sherlock tucked their luggage underneath the seat, and some in the shelving above, and they took their seats. While the compartment was empty, and with the possibility of other travelers coming to join them, they took their respectable places across from one another.<p>

Sherlock pulled his pipe from from his jacket, and packed it then lit it.

"Do you think they will let you have her?" John asked after several minutes of silence.

Sherlock took a few puffs from his pipe, blew the smoke into rings, and regarded the window next to him before turning to look at John.

"I did abandon their now dead daughter, and by proxy, my own. I don't expect it to be handled easily, but she belongs with me. Perhaps if I offer a strict visiting regime, they'll be more amiable to it."

"Strict? Because of me?"

"Because of _us_. You haven't coerced me into anything I don't want."

"If you had never met me-"

"I did meet you. And I don't regret any moment of it. I can have you, and my daughter- and that is what I want my life to be, so that is what its going to be."

John gave a small smile, and unbuttoned his traveling jacket to make himself more comfortable.

"I love the smell of your pipe." he said. "I've never smelled a tobacco like yours before."

"Nor should you. I pack my own mixture."

"Good. I should hate to lose you one day and smell your memory coming from another man's pipe."

Sherlock tapped the ash out into the glass tray on the sil, and put the pipe back between his lips. The door to their compartment opened, and a man with a briefcase, and a ragged look in his face came through. John nodded his head and slid across the small empty space between the benches and placed himself next to Sherlock, leaving the other side open for their companion.

They both had held a hope that no one else would ride with them, and they could be alone to speak all the things they wanted to eachother without worry of another set of ears to hear them, that at some point they could draw the shades, and steal a touch or a loving whisper.

But there was nothing of it now.


	7. A Glimpse From the Past

The trip back to England was long and strenuous. And the fact that they could only have minimal conversation with one another didn't help. Time dragged out for what felt like an eternity. You could see the way John licked his lips, that he just wanted to roll a million questions off his tongue, but he knew he couldn't.

The man sitting across from them wore a dark brown bowler hat, his coat was a formal black as its tails draped by his side, he wore a pair of small circular glasses, which he used to read the book he was evidently engrossed in.

John tilted his head, staring the man up and down. He examined his every wrinkle, line and crevice as he watched him lick the padding of his thumb to turn to the next page. He didn't seem phased by John's reaction nor did Sherlock.

John didn't know why. But he felt something. It was inside him- tying knots inside the pit of his stomach. Just staring at this man gave him a bad feeling, and he didn't know why.

He felt nauseated, like a wave of sickness had just come over him. He clenched his stomach in attempt to comfort himself, but it didn't help. Sherlock noticed the disturbance from the corner of his eye. He tried not to make any physical contact with him, but without thinking he subconsciously placed his hands over the broadness of his shoulders. John hunched over his stomach, quickly swiping them away so no one would see.

The man on the other side slowly lowered his book as he peered out from the bridge of his glasses. With a sigh he slammed his paperback shut.

"You should go and get some assistance." he said while placatingly placing his book by his side.

Sherlock looked up at the man as he remained calmly seated. His legs were crossed while he cupped his hands over his knee. "And you should do it soon."

Sherlock reluctantly pulled his gaze away. John still remained hunched over as he hugged himself. He didn't feel sick from pain or nauseated from fear, but he felt nervous. And he didn't have the faintest clue as to why. He naturally assumed it was from everything which had happened, but why it had suddenly kicked in now had him baffled- perhaps reality was finally starting to kick in, and he wasn't the strong soldier he thought himself to be.

"Your friend is sick. And you're still sitting there. Go and get assistance."

Sherlock didn't want to leave John. He didn't want to leave him alone. He started to think to himself why this man couldn't go and get help, why did it have to be him?

But, without any further questions, Sherlock slowly rose up onto his feet. "I'll be back soon." he said before walking out the door.

The man waited until Sherlock was no longer in sight, and then he took off his hat. He delicately placed it on top of his book before folding up his glasses.

"You'll be okay. Your friend will be back soon."

John inhaled a deep breath in an attempt to settle his nerves. "He really shouldn't of done that." he said. "I'm sure it will pass soon."

The man furrowed his brow as he stared John up and down. It was like he was dissecting his every detail, pulling him apart and putting him back together again.

"So, this sickness- do you get it often?"

"Um. No, not often. I just have a lot going on lately. That's all it is. Like I said- I'm sure it will pass soon."

"Well, that's good. I'm glad to hear it, John."

The world around John suddenly froze. It felt like that everything in it had disappeared, and they were the only two living things left.

"Has it really been that long, John? Has time really aged me that much? I was hoping that maybe you would have recognized me at least a little bit."

John didn't know what to do nor what to say. He was speechless as the man sitting across from him snickered in slight amusement.


	8. I'll Still Take You Home

John looked at the stranger who was claiming to be anything but, a bit more closely. There was something from the moment he walked into their compartment that had John feeling odd, but he couldn't put a finger on what it was.

The strangers laughing subsided, and he leaned back in his seat, almost satisfied that he wasn't recognizable when he believed he should have been. Then- then he smiled; brilliant and wide in a way that made John's mind fill with a million memories he had willed himself to forget.

"Oh my God." he said quietly, his mouth falling in awe. "Edwin. It's- It's been so long."

"Three years, but it does feel like a lifetime."

John stared at Edwin, no longer a stranger, but a ghost of his past. He felt his lips turn into a thin smile, and his cheeks flush with warmth.

"So, Paris; is that where you relocated after the war?" Edwin asked.

"No. I went back to London. I've been in Paris on what I suppose you could call a holiday."

"With your friend?"

John looked next to the empty space next to him where Sherlock had been sitting, and back to Edwin.

"Yes." he answered firmly, and watched Edwin's eyes light with a sparkle.

"What was your business in Paris?" John asked after a beat of silence.

"The business sort. Leg work for my employer."

"I see."

They were silent again, looking passed each other rather than at each other, before Edwin leaned forward, and touched a gentle, hesitant hand on John's knee.

"I've missed you." he whispered.

John brushed his fingers against the other man's before bending his knee, and watching it fall away.

"Then you shouldn't have left."

"You were unhappy; you were miserable, and I couldn't be the cause of that anymore."

"It was never you that I was unhappy with."

Just as Edwin began to lean forward again, and John shuffled in his seat to meet him, the compartment door opened, and Sherlock showed.

Both men made haste to return to a more decent position as Sherlock shut the door, and turned to face them.

"I brought soda water." he said, holding a glass out to John.

John smiled, took the glass and drank half of it.

The tension was thick in the compartment; anyone could feel it hanging between Edwin and John and threatening to envelop Sherlock in turn. Even if he wasn't able to do what he did, John knew Sherlock would know that something had happened in his stead.

Sherlock said nothing. He passed a glance between John and the man who was still to a stranger to himself, and took up his seat. The three of them sat in an awful silence for near half hour before Edwin excused himself to the dinner car.

"Who is he?" Sherlock immediately asked upon the other's departure.

"His name is Edwin Almos. He was in my regiment."

"And who is he _to you_?"

John turned to look at Sherlock, saw the anger in his eyes, the hurt in the frown lines around his mouth, and the jealousy in the grip of his fingers against the armrest.

"You already know." John said quietly.

"Did you fuck him?"

John had no desire to have that conversation with Sherlock; not right then on the train, and not ever. There were things of his past that he believed belonged there, far away from the present of his life with Sherlock. He had already shared one of those things, and now he was being forced to have to share another.

Sherlock nodded his head, taking John's silence for an affirmative answer.

"It was more than that." John said. "I loved him."

"You loved him? Do you still? Are you pining for him when you're lying in my arms?"

"Of course, I'm not. I love you; just you."

"Is that why this is so easy for you? Why you're so understanding and patient, and a Goddamned Saint compared to me; because I'm not the first?"

"Sherlock, please."

John was begging. He had seen Sherlock angry, but never angry at him, and he didn't like it. He didn't like the knot tieing tighter and tighter inside of him, making him afraid of what might happen next.

"How long, John? How long did you wait before you finally left him?"

"Almost a year after we were both discharged; dishonourably. I thought- you had read everything about me that night, I didn't know that you didn't see that; that you didn't see the hurt I was still nursing and trying to leave behind me."

"I don't think I wanted to see it." he whispered, more to himself than to John.

"And I wasn't the one who left."

Sherlock sighed, and steepled his fingers underneath his chin. John looked at him, waiting for him to say something.

"Sherlock." John said, placing a gentle hand on Sherlock's arm.

"I watched you marry someone else, I watched you hold her and kiss her, and heard you say that you loved her. I'm leaving Paris to raise the child you had with her. Please don't be angry at me, because I loved someone else before I loved you."

Sherlock stood from his seat, stumbling on his feet from the movement of the train. He grabbed onto a piece of the wall to hold himself steady, and looked down at John.

"Do you think that I loved her?" he asked.

John didn't answer.

"I wanted to love her. I thought that maybe, in time, I could. But I don't think I could ever love anyone that isn't you."

"If I had known you were in my future..."

Sherlock waved a dismissive hand in front of John's face, and reached for the handle of the compartment. He had it open a small crack before he was stopped by John's voice.

"Do you love me less now, knowing of Edwin; knowing of what we discussed days earlier?" he asked.

"I don't." Sherlock answered, his back still to John, hand still on the handle. He waited a moment, then drew the door open, and stepped out.


	9. An Army in Disguise

Sherlock sat outside the compartment, inside the corridor. He needed time to adjust to the fact which was just spoken- that he wasn't in fact, John's first love. And it was quite selfish of him to think otherwise.

He saw the door to their compartment open, as he looked over, he saw John standing nearby with folded arms.

"Sherlock. Please come back inside. We need to talk. Please." John said, more like begged.

Sherlock stared up at him. He stared at his every god forsaken detail. His eyes, wrinkles, hair, skin- everything. And the fact that his body has been places which were not him. That was enough to tie knots inside the pit of his stomach.

Sherlock let out a sigh as he pushed himself up onto his feet. The two of them walked inside as John gently closed the door behind them.

"Sherlock. Please talk to me."

"There's nothing to talk about."

"Nothing to talk about? What do you mean? Of course there is."

Sherlock turned around and inhaled a deep breath. As he closed his eyes he clasped his hands around the nearby windowsill before speaking.

"John. I know what you're thinking. Jesus Christ. I know exactly what you're thinking. And I am so fucking sorry."

John was slightly taken back as his eyes gazed over the back of Sherlock's body. "You're sorry? For what?"

"You're right. I married Irene. And you had to sit there and watch. I know now, that directing those vows to you- it wasn't enough."

"What? Sherlock, of course it was enough. It was more than enough."

"No. It wasn't. Because there was no way of me to know the pain you went through, not until I endure it for myself first hand."

"Sherlock...what are you trying to tell me?" John said.

"I'm trying to tell you that, what you told me- it hurt. But, it was nothing compared to what you had to go through that day. And I'm sorry, John. I am so fucking sorry."

John slowly dragged his feet over the surface of the floor. He ghosted behind Sherlock's body as his hands grasped the windowsill tighter than before. John could feel the tension as he placed a subtle hold over the structure of his hips. "Sherlock. You have nothing to be sorry for. I love you, and only you. I promise that Edwin means nothing to me anymore. He is in the past, and please, I want him to stay there."

John took hold of Sherlock's hand where he gently fondled with his tips. They stood in silence, relishing in each others company. John comfortably rested his head against the surface of Sherlock's back as he felt him inhale a deep breath. "John. Never leave me." Sherlock whispered.

"Don't worry. I won't." John whispered in return while he fruitlessly rubbed the surface of Sherlock's skin.

"We should sit back down. We don't want to get caught."

John let out a light breathed chuckle as he released his grasp from around Sherlock's waist. Just as they did, the door to their compartment opened for what felt like the tenth time that day.

Edwin walked back inside as he stared at the two men one at a time. "So did you two get up to anything interesting while I was gone?" He jokingly asked as he sipped at the glass of water he brought back with him.

John slyly looked over his shoulder, pretending like he hadn't told Sherlock that they knew each other. But he knew that Edwin was smarter than that, and he probably was already aware of what their feelings were for one another. It didn't matter what John said- Edwin had made his own conclusion already. And nothing was going to stop that. That much John did know.

"Nothing terribly exciting. No."

And that wasn't a lie. For the entire time John has known Sherlock, out of all of their experiences together, this of all meetings and events would have to be the most bland on record.

John turned around as Sherlock chuckled. He stared Edwin in the eyes, looking him up and down as he examined his every detail.

"Sherlock-" John whispered.

"What?"

"Don't do it."

"Excuse me? Do what exactly?"

"You know what. Don't act dumb. And now isn't the time nor the place." John said almost in a growl through gritted teeth.

Sherlock simply rolled his eyes as he paced back to his chair. He slumped himself inside, mumbling a few words of unimportance to himself as he propped himself up by his elbow.

John sighed as he stood in the corner of the room. He looked at the man he once loved, wondering how in the hell he didn't recognize him to begin with. He was the man he had planned to spend the rest of his life with.

* * *

><p>When they weren't out fighting or saving lives, they used to sneak into each others tents and talk about their future together. Once they left the army, they had made plans together- just the two of them. They were going to live together, they were going to start a family one day- until all of that got taken away from them.<p>

One night Edwin came over into John's tent. Talking wasn't just talking anymore- it was screaming. Edwin was in the midst of fucking John so hard he couldn't help but scream. But, that one final push, and that one final scream was what destroyed them. The door to their tent opened up and standing before them was their High Commander. Without any words or questions, both Edwin and John were discharged from the army immediately. The two of them got sent their separate ways, and never saw each other since. Not until now of course.

John tried to send letters in hopes that they would somehow reach him. He was desperate. But as soon as he never received a letter in return, he knew right there and then, it was over. Their life together was ruined.

And that's when John decided that he needed to move back to England. Get a job maybe. Try and live some sort of normal, mundane life.

Day after day he would read the newspaper, waiting for the right job to show up- and then suddenly, one day...it did.

That's how he came to being the Holmes' gardener. Those were the events which caused him to choose such a quiet and peaceful career. But, the one thing he didn't know- he didn't know that one day, he was going to fall in love with the man behind the red and golden mask.


	10. Home

Baker Street. Sherlock scanned his eyes over the sitting room. There were no coverings on the furniture, the dust was barely settled in on the mantel over the fireplace. He wondered, glancing across the room at the curtains of the window; still and unmoving, how long Irene waited for him there. How many nights she walked the path from the sofa to the bedroom, and wondered where he had gone and if he was ever coming back to her. She had thought that it was going to be there home, that they would live out their days together with children, but now she was gone.

Now, it was he and John who would spend their forever there.

Sherlock was thrown from his thoughts by the force of Redbeard, stretching his legs from his ride in a crate in the cargo car, against his legs, bounding into the flat, and jumping across the furniture.

Sherlock dropped his suitcase on the floor and rushed over to John, knocking the door closed with the force of their combined weight against it. Sherlock held him there, trapped in a cage of his arms, and kissed him; off center and frantic.

"I love you." he said between breaths. "I'm sorry about the train- I had no right."

"You had every right."

John dropped his own case at his side and laced his fingers through Sherlock's hair.

"I kept things from you I shouldn't have."

"Your past is your past, John."

"But my present is yours."

Sherlock ran a finger along the edge of John's face, tracing from the bone underneath his eye down to the curve of his chin.

"And your future?" he asked.

"Yours as well."

Sherlock grinned, and bent his head to slowly capture John's lips between his own. They kissed against the door, Sherlock's knee sliding between John's legs, and pressing against him. John's hands found purchase on Sherlock's waist, fingers dipping underneath his jacket and clawing at the fabric of his shirt.

"I should really go and get this over with." Sherlock mumbled into John's mouth.

"Yes, you should."

John pulled Sherlock's shirt from his trousers and slid underneath, his hands gripping at the skin, and pulling him impossibly closer.

Sherlock was filled with an anxious flutter. The sooner he left, the sooner he would be through the inevitable fight with the Adler's and the sooner he would have his daughter home with him. But there would be no one to help him; no one to attend to her when she cried, no one to take her when he wanted a moment of peace; it was just he and John, and he knew that moments like this; half dressed, half hard, would be too far out of reach.

Dropping his hand down to entwine his fingers with John's, he led him to the sofa. They fell, Sherlock lying atop John, fingers pushing up the hem of his shirt, and working the snap and zip of his trousers all the same. John pushed Sherlock's jacket from his shoulders, fumbled with his buttons of his shirt and slipped that away too until he was naked; trousers already pooled on the floor.

They were too frantic, too desperate with the fight on the train still lingering in the back of their minds, and so they ground against one another, nipped and sucked at the pieces of flesh their blind lips could find. They could have laid there forever, finding new places to touch and to feel, but forever was different now; forever was going to be exhausted kisses, stolen moments of pleasure when the baby had her eyes closed, and her mouth shut.

"J-John."

John's attention was brought back to Sherlock, brought back to what he had gotten lost inside his head trying to hold onto. John reached his hands up to Sherlock's face, and crashed their mouths together, feeling his body tense, and the tight heat start to unfurl inside the depth of his stomach.

"Love you." he whispered into Sherlock's mouth.

* * *

><p>With Sherlock gone, John took the time to familiarize himself with what was now his home. John had never been there; it was too risky for him to go to Sherlock, so he spent his days and nights waiting for Sherlock to come to him. That was why Paris was such a liberation. There was no more waiting, no more wondering if Sherlock had given up on them. No matter where Sherlock went on his own, he always came back home to John, always fell asleep next to him and woke the same way.<p>

John supposed that it would be much the same way now.

The furniture was soft and velveteen with curved wooden spines. John ran his fingers along their lines, walking a circle around the sitting room. He wandered into the kitchen, the counter clear, the stove new and shining. There were pieces of what John presumed were for Sherlock's experiments, left sitting out like the woman who once lived there was waiting for him to come home and use them. He continued his way passed the bathroom, down a small hall into the bedroom, passing a staircase that would bring up to another floor, but he was less interested in what might be up there, and more interested in what was behind the bedroom door.

It was simple; the bed pushed against the wall directly to the right of the door, and a shelf that held a few oddities and books. A large wooden dresser sat near one of the windows, and John paused in front of it to look at a photo Irene and Sherlock they stood for on their wedding day. He picked it up, ran his thumb along Sherlock's face, and slipped it into the top drawer. He searched the wardrobe in the hallway, and brought back clean bedclothes to replace the old ones with.

When he finished that, he realized, that if things went the way Sherlock was expecting them to, he would be returning with a baby, and that baby would need someplace to sleep. So, John took a drawer from the dresser, fetched more sheets and blankets from the wardrobe, and made a little bed for Cora, setting it on the other side of one of the nightstands. When he was satisfied with his work, he drew himself a bath to clean up from the travel, dressed, and picked a book from the shelf and waited in one of the chairs for Sherlock and Cora to come home.


	11. Tell me Something I Don't Know

Sherlock pushed open the doors of the Adler's house. It was huge. A two storey monstrosity. And in Sherlock's opinion it was far too big for any two people to inhabit it alone. Well, in this case, make that three.

Sherlock's footsteps echoed inside the foyer as he intently observed his surroundings. His eyes followed up the spiral staircase, reminding him of his own back home.

"Who's there?" a voice called.

Sherlock spun on the heels of his shoes, only to come face to face with Irene's mother, Eleanor. She walked in the front door, holding a bunch of freshly picked flowers from her garden. She stood frozen in the doorway as she attempted to speak.

"Sh-Sherlock? What do you think you're doing here?"

"Always a pleasure to see you, Eleanor." Sherlock said.

"Please don't try to soften me up. And certainly don't try to evade my question. What are you doing here, Sherlock?" Eleanor demanded.

Sherlock had only met Eleanor once. And that's all he needed. He knew straight away whose personality Irene took from- her mother. Their personalities were almost identical. They are the only two people in the world who could possibly get away with having such an uptight attitude and upbringing. And to think that Cora was almost going to be raised the same way, made Sherlock sick.

If it was his choice, he would of snuck into Cora's nursery at night and kidnapped her from her crib. He didn't even want to lay eyes on Eleanor-but he didn't have a choice. Apparently kidnapping's a crime, and leaving a note behind wouldn't do it justice. Such a pity.

"I think you know why I'm here." Sherlock said.

"If you think you're going to lay one finger on my granddaughter. Think again, Mr. Holmes. She is only three months old and needs a mother. I'm the closest thing to mother she is going to know."

"That may be so. But I am her father, and she is my responsibility."

"Your responsibility? She is three months old now and you have been gone for a total of one year. You think you can just runaway and leave a note behind giving your parents no explanation as to why or where?"

Sherlock could feel fury eating away at him as he took a reluctant step forward. "I did tell them."

"But not straight away. Am I correct? Sherlock, they were in hysterics. They had no idea where you were- not until they had finally received your letter in the mail. Tell me, Sherlock- when all of this was happening, did you even think about Irene once?"

Sherlock clasped his fists together as he took another step forward with gritted teeth. "Of course I thought about her. That letter was addressed to her as well. It wasn't just for my parents."

"And is that all my daughter is worth? She doesn't even get a private explanation? She's just included along the grapevine just like everyone else. Was my daughter no one special to you, Sherlock?"

Sherlock slightly bowed his head as he stared at the shining leather of his shoes. He watched the sun glisten along their smooth, black surface as he firmly clasped his fist tighter together.

"She will always be special to me, Eleanor." he angrily whispered underneath the shallowness of his breath. "Now, if you wouldn't mind- I am here to pick up my baby. My little girl- not yours."

Sherlock sucked in a deep breath as he turned around to head towards the staircase. He remembered their engagement party, he could still remember the night like it was yesterday. He could still remember the feel of Irene's red fingernails trailing along the surface of his skin as her hands and lips not only touched him, but embraced him.

"How dare you come in here and think that I'm going to willingly hand Cora over. I won't have it."

Sherlock's hand delicately slid up the railing of the staircase as he quietly trudged up the stairs one at a time. He could feel, Eleanor watching from the foyer as his every step came one closer to Cora's nursery.

"If it wasn't for you, Sherlock Holmes- my daughter would still be alive."

Sherlock's entire body suddenly froze as those words fired lethal strains of emotion through his system. His mind suddenly became flooded with both sadness and guilt at the same time.

He knew he would always love Irene- she would always be someone special to him in his life. After all, she is the mother of his child. But that love he so desperately wanted to find with her, just wasn't there.

Eleanor was right- Irene would still be alive if it wasn't for him. That much he was certain of.

Sherlock tried to open his mouth to speak. But what do you say to a grieving mother? Words aren't so simple when you're faced with such a complex affair.

Sherlock's eyes filled with sorrow as he reluctantly peered over his shoulder. He could see the tears streaming down her face as she politely dabbed them away with her white handkerchief.

"Eleanor..I'm sorry." Sherlock said before quietly continuing up the stairs. All he wanted was to get this ordeal over and done with. He just wanted to hold his little girl in his arms for the first time and prove to everyone he was father material. He did have feelings, and they were going to be spent on the three people who he loves most in this world- John, Cora and Redbeard.


	12. The Pink Rocking Horse

Sherlock found the nursery quickly; a small pink plaque of a rocking horse hanging from the center of the door. He slowly pushed it open, and crept into the room, toward the cot where the smallest creature he had ever seen laid peacefully sleeping, wrapped in a white blanket.

He reached in and picked her up, looked over her fair skin and her bright eyes, and her dark, dark hair. She had all of her toes, all of her fingers; Sherlock loved her immediately.

There was a sound at the doorway; a sniffle and the shuffling of feet. Sherlock spoke to Eleanor as he looked down at Cora.

"You should know that I tried. I owe you, and Irene that much."

Sherlock turned to her.

"I wanted to love her, I tried to. She was wonderful and beautiful, and she deserved love, but I couldn't do it."

"Why didn't you just tell her that?"

"Everyone else's happiness was so dependent on the idea that I love her. I thought that if I pretended-"

"But you got tired of pretending? For a man who's never loved anyone other than himself, I can see how that charade would have been exhausting."

Sherlock wanted to tell her that he was capable of love beyond himself, that he loved someone; loved John more than anything, than anyone, and that he was sorry he couldn't love Irene like that.

"I'm sorry that I wasn't here to fulfill my familial duty, but I am here now, and I am in love with what's last left of your daughter...mine."

Sherlock looked down at her, and wrapped her blanket tight around her small body.

"I'll take what I need now. You can have the rest sent to Baker Street at your leisure, but quite quickly. I trust my parents will be alerted to my return in short time, but if you could refrain from the news as long as possible..."

"They don't know you've returned and they don't know you've come to claim Cora into the Holmes' family where she rightfully belongs?"

"Where she belongs is with me. The fact that she is a Holmes is only because I cannot give back who I am. But make no mistake, she is not a part of that family."

Eleanor uncrossed her arms from her chest, and walked into the nursery. She placed a gentle hand over Cora's head, and bent to press a kiss to her soft skin.

"It's a great responsibility to care for a child, Sherlock- and to do it on your own…"

"I won't be on my own." he said, though he didn't take the time to elaborate beyond that.

She sighed, and reached into the cot to grab onto a small teddy bear with a blue ribbon wrapped around its neck. She handed it to Sherlock.

"She likes this one. Calms her down when she's fussy."

"Thank you. And I don't mean just about the bear."

"I know. I'll be in the parlor; I'd like to see her one last time before you leave."

"Of course."

Sherlock watched as Eleanor left the nursery, and then stood in the center of the room. The baby was still asleep, and he only hoped that she would wake up, that she could get her first glimpse of him in the safety of her own bedroom, could see the woman who had been caring for her one last time.

He laid her back in her cot, and found a small case in the wardrobe which he filled with some of her tiny dresses and one piece body suits, the nappies that were in a small drawer, some toys, and the glass bottles sitting on a long table. He slung the bag over his shoulder, picked her back up and carefully went down the stairs into the parlor.

"We'll be leaving now." he said into the great room.

Eleanor looked up from her stitching, and gave a sad smile.

"Take care of her."

"I will."

If Sherlock was ever to do anything right in his life; it was going to be that little girl. He bundled her up, took a last look at Eleanor, and turned to leave the house with the baby and her things; to bring her home.


	13. Two Men, One Dog, and a Baby Named Cora

The ride home in the cab was perfect. It was everything Sherlock could of ever hoped for. Little Cora was asleep in his arms as he stared down at her every delicate feature. Her cute little nose, her soft lips, and those long black eyelashes. As Sherlock smiled, he leaned down and placed a gentle kiss on the surface of her soft, velvet like skin.

"It's okay, Cora. I've got you. Daddy's here now." he whispered to her as the padding of his finger gently stroked her cheek.

Sherlock gazed out the window as he held Cora close to his chest. He watched as they sped past trees, houses and grassy knolls. Irene's mother lived in the rich country unfortunately, but they would be home soon. Home to London where he would be reunited with Redbeard and John too.

* * *

><p>The sudden nervousness Sherlock felt was not like any he had ever felt before. That big black door with those glistening golden numbers stared down at Sherlock and dripped fear into his veins. He knew that once he opened that door, his new life was going to come faster than in a blink of an eye. Everything was going to change…. for better or for worse.<p>

Sherlock held Cora in his arms. Just as he was about to knock on the door- it opened. John stood at the entrance, almost shocked to see Sherlock standing there.

"Y-you're home?" John said as his eyes sparkled in glee.

"Yes. I am." Sherlock replied as his mouth curled up into a small smile.

John stared at Cora in awe. He gently stroked her face with the back of his finger with a smile that nothing would be able to destroy.

"Sherlock...she's gorgeous. She looks exactly like you."

Sherlock said nothing. He simply embraced this moment as the love of his life bonded with his daughter for the first time. It was a magical moment which he was lucky enough to be a part of. The happiness it brought John was a certain type that Sherlock knew he would never be able to accomplish, but somehow, Cora could. And that made his heart beat in motions he never knew capable.

"John. Would you mind helping me with Cora's things? There's not much."

"Of course. You carry her. I'll bring all of her belongings inside."

Sherlock gratefully smiled in return as he stepped inside. He felt like he hadn't stepped a foot in this old place for years. Ignoring the simple fact that they were just here mere hours ago, frantically kissing each other in all the right ways. Something Cora was never going to bare witness too.

Sherlock smiled with Cora in his arms as he slowly paced over to Redbeard sleeping on the lounge. He woke up, staring up at Sherlock with those huge hazel eyes and tail wagging frantically on the old musty blanket he was curled up on.

"Hey, Redbeard. We have a new member of our family. This is Cora."

Redbeard's ears perked up as he fascinatingly tilted his head. He let out a quiet moan to the feel of Sherlock's fingers scratching him behind his ear. As Sherlock sat down, Redbeard curiously started sniffing Cora up and down while brushing his whiskers against her face. Sherlock was protective. He knew that Redbeard wouldn't hurt a fly, but he held Cora close to his chest as he let Redbeard sniff the newest member of their family.

As John walked inside, he put Cora's things into their bedroom. He walked out, only to come face to face with the most beautiful sight he has ever seen; Cora, Sherlock and Redbeard snuggled up together on the lounge.

John slowly walked over to Sherlock and gave him a gentle smile. As Sherlock smiled in return, he gazed into John Watson's beautiful eyes, watching them glimmer in what he could of sworn was hope.

"Would you like to hold her?" Sherlock asked as he watched John's eyes trace baby Cora up and down.

Suddenly he stopped and looked up into Sherlock's magnificent blue. "A-are you sure?"

"Of course I'm sure. We're a family now, John. All of us. Me, you, Cora and Redbeard. And I promise you that nothing is ever going to stop us from being together forever."

As Sherlock delicately passed over Cora, John held her fragile little body within the protection of his arms. He grinned while holding her for the first time, not being able to take his eyes off of her.

"Sherlock..she's perfect." John whispered as if not to disturb the serene tranquility the room held in this precious moment.

"I know she is. And do you want to know why she's perfect?"

"Because you're her amazing father?"

"No. Because I get the privilege of raising my daughter with you. Cora is going to grow up under our influence. I don't care if you're not her biological parent. Blood means nothing. But, you, John Watson- you mean everything."


	14. Life as we (now) Know It

John set down the cloth he was using to clean up and polish the iron Cora's cot. It had been dropped off earlier in the morning, and had spots of mud from the movers bringing it inside. He laughed when he caught sight of Sherlock, his plain white shirt untucked from his trousers, and buttoned lopsided, and his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and his face spotted in light blue paint.

"Have you ever painted before?" John asked.

Sherlock set down his brush, and ran the back of his hand across his forehead- leaving more paint behind.

"Yes, John. I spent my summers earning tuppence from the neighbours. Of course I've never painted before." He stepped back from the wall. "Am I doing badly?" he asked.

"No. You're just getting it on yourself about as much as the wall."

John crossed over and wiped a bit from Sherlock's cheek with his thumb. it was a small gesture that John meant in teasing, but since Cora's arrival at the beginning of the week, there hadn't been much time, between feedings, baths and changes, and turning the bedroom upstairs into a nursery, for touching of any kind.

Sherlock leaned into it, and John lingered longer than necessary.

"Your hand is cold." Sherlock said.

"Your face is warm."

Sherlock laid his hand over John's and brushed it down his face, slipping a finger, obscenely between his lips to the answer of a low groan.

"Mmm, Sherlock, you really shouldn't do that."

"And why not?

Sherlock took another finger into his mouth.

"Because It's making me want you."

"So have me; while Cora is still asleep." he whispered.

"John, we can't do this in Cora's nursery."

"She's downstairs in her drawer, would you rather do it down there?"

"That's the bedroom, the sitting room is free."

"We'll wake her."

"Well, damn it John, all that's left is the stairs."

John raised his eyebrow, and tugged at the unbuttoned collar of sherlock's shirt, pulling him toward the door, and down the tiny hallway to the staircase.

"Are you serious?" Sherlock asked.

John pushed Sherlock against the wall, standing a step above him, pressed their mouths together.

"This is ridiculous. You are ridiculous." Sherlock said.

"But you love me regardless."

Sherlock steadied John's chin between his thumb and index finger, and stared at him.

"Yes. I do. Always."

They kissed again, and clawed at each others clothing, tearing away the offending articles and tossing them down to the landing below.

There was a draft from the windows upstairs, and their bodies shivered. John traced the light covering of goosebumps along Sherlock's arms, down to the tips of his fingers, and then knelt down in front of him to trace along the bumps rising from the tops of his feet to the hollow of his hips.

"John."

Sherlock's whispered plea hit John's ears like a melody. He pressed his palms against the globes of Sherlock's arse and kissed along his stomach.

Sherlock's back arched from the railing, trying to desperately to be closer to John.

This was what he knew life could be, what he saw when he looked into john's eyes that first time, what he longed for all those nights they were apart. John had pulled him in like a spell, and Sherlock never wanted to break it- not once.

John's touch was home; his kiss, the moon and the stars; his taste, the burning sun.

"John." he said again, voice high and thready.

He felt as though his knees were about to give way, and he would tumble down the steps.

"Shh, I've got you."

John licked a stripe from navel to groin, careful to keep his touch light, keep Sherlock right on the edge as he teased him into his mouth.

It was somewhere between Sherlock's litany of moans, and the slamming of his fists around the rail, that they both started to hear the faint puffs of frustrated cries from down below them.

John sped up, his tongue wild and even, desperate to get Sherlock to come before the eventual wailing was to begin.

Sherlock's hands flew from their grip on the rail to John's shoulders as he bit down on his bottom lip and shouted into the stale air between them.

John gently slid his way back up Sherlock's body, steadying him on the step. He wiped at his mouth and gave Sherlock a slow kiss.

The crying had gotten louder, and they cleaned themselves up and redressed. Sherlock picked Cora up from her small drawer, and held her body close to his; his shirt not fully buttoned, and the blanket she was wrapped in falling away, he could feel her heat against him, feel her little heart beat against his.

She was home; the moon, the stars and the burning sun.

* * *

><p>Sleepy days went on, and sleepless nights continued. Sherlock insisted on being the one to leave the warmth of their bed to climb the stairs when she cried, and John insisted that he stay. Even on the rare occasion that John won the argument, Sherlock still slipped from between the sheets and leaned in the doorway of the nursery to watch as John gently hummed to Cora, and walked the floor with her.<p>

He thought back- sometimes to John's confession of having run away from his opportunity for fatherhood years earlier, and couldn't help the small smirk that twitched at the corner of his mouth knowing that John chose fatherhood now. Of course, Cora would never call John father, it would be best if she, like everyone else, never knew the kind of love John and Sherlock had for each other, but she would know that John loved her, that he had cared for her as if a part of him was a part of her.

It was raining on and off; fat droplets that splattered against the concrete below while Sherlock walked down the sidewalk, covered by the safety of an umbrella. He couldn't remember the last time he left the flat, no reason to flee, but it had been brought to his attention after John was dressing Cora from her bath that none of her clothes were fitting her anymore. So, with a sigh, Sherlock left for the shops, thinking all the while that they should hire a house girl who could do things like this for them.

It looked strange as he opened the door of the small shop, mannequins outfitted in women's dresses, and smaller fashions for children hung on metal racks. He quickly turned, and walked back out, heading toward his tailor's instead. The man's wife was a skilled seamstress, and he would have her make Cora new dresses and nightgowns.

He was almost to the shop, only a few more steps to go when a particular umbrella caught his attention. The streets were lined with men coming and going from work with their umbrellas, and Sherlock had been keeping a keen eye on them, ready to run the other way when he spotted it, but there was no such luck.

Sherlock stopped, his toes in a puddle, and looked up to meet the eyes of his brother.

"Sherlock." He said in his dry, even tone.

"Mycroft."

"I didn't know you were back on London. Got your wits back after your romantic crisis?"

"I'm still firmly in the middle of my romantic crisis, thank you."

"I see. And mother told you of the fate of your wife?"

"Yes she did."

"And the birth of your poor unfortunate child?"

"Yes, I was made aware of that as well."

Mycroft looked down on Sherlock, his lips pursed.

"Oh, Sherlock." he said after a moment, "You didn't."

"Didn't what?"

"Don't be stupid; I know you aren't. At least I thought you weren't."

"She's my daughter Mycroft. She belongs with me."

Mycroft laughed, "With you and a crippled gardener?"

"John is a fine man. A doctor, and a soldier, and you'll do well to respect him!" Sherlock shouted, stepping up on his toes to meet with his brother's height.

Sherlock took in a deep breath, lowered back to his feet, and looked around the street at the passerby's who were pretending to pay him no attention.

"You are an idiot, Sherlock. You can't raise her, not without a mother, not with another man, and not on your own."

"I can, I am, and I will. Now good day, Mycroft."

Sherlock tipped his umbrella, and walked around his brother to continue his way to the tailor.

"Oh, and Sherlock..." Mycroft called after as their shoulders brushed past one another. "I'll be telling Father that you've returned. I'm sure he has a few things to say to you; Mother as well."

"I'm sure that they do. Good day, Mycroft."


	15. Family Connections

After the encounter Sherlock just had with Mycroft, it was a refreshing sight to see John cradling Cora inside his arms as he closed the door to their apartment shut. She was sleeping inside John's arms with a little pink blanket as he gently hummed a lullaby to her. Sometimes when you looked at her you could of sworn that she had never shed a tear, never cried or complained. But the two of them both knew better than that and that's why this moment was just so much more special. Because it's not very often it happens, not with such beauty.

John smiled as Sherlock quietly paced towards him.

"So, did you buy some new clothes for her?" John whispered as he saw Sherlock walk up to him empty handed.

"I went to the tailor. They should be ready to pick up by the morning. For now she's just going to have to make do with some clothing we've got here."

"And do you care to tell me what's wrong with buying from the store?"

"It's so tedious. And not to mention-"

"Embarrassing?" John swiftly intervened.

Sherlock didn't say anything. Instead he directed his attention onto Cora. He scooped Cora out of John's arm, indulging in this beautiful moment of peace as he heard him quietly chuckle.

"Well, I mean, if you're embarrassed….I'm more than happy to go and find Cora some temporary nightgowns for the night until sunrise."

"That won't be needed my dear, John. Her tailored clothes and nightwear isn't going to be cheap. But it's going to last her for a very long time. And quality is key."

"I absolutely agree. But, Sherlock- she needs to wear something. I don't want her catching a cold."

"Of course you don't. Because you're her parent and you care for her. Just like me."

"So, what are you going to do?"

"It might come as a surprise to you, but I do know very minimal skills in textiles. Maybe just enough to sew her something by hand, with a needle and thread. All I need is a shirt."

John blinked a couple of times. Uncertain of what to say, uncertain of what to do. Sherlock Holmes...sewing? No..that's impossible.

Sherlock smirked as he admired John's silence. He wanted to know, so badly what he was thinking. He had a rough idea, but there was no way to be certain if it was true or not. After all, Sherlock Holmes was an observer not a mind reader.

"John? Are you okay?" Sherlock asked, quickly snapped John out of his trance.

"Wh-what...y-yes I'm fine. Sorry..I was somewhere else."

Sherlock stopped cradling Cora immediately. His eyes met with John's as he tried examine his every detail and facial expression. All in hopes of finding some sort of hint as to what might be running through his mind at this very minute.

"Hm. Yes I can see that, John. Your mind wanders a lot...doesn't it?"

"I thought you would already know that."

"Of course I know that. I know everything about you."

Sherlock resumed cradling Cora's soft little body in his arms as he stared down at her. Her every feature was so perfect and delicate that he was afraid he would almost break her with nothing more than her touch.

"You know, John. It was my parents...they forced me to learn knowledge in the area of textiles. I never really knew why. I guess I was too young to question it at the time. But generally, textiles is for the ladies."

"I know. It is. That's why I was a bit shocked when you told me."

"John..I have a request to ask of you. And I hope you don't mind me asking it…"

"You know I won't mind. What is it?"

"I-I need you to take off your shirt."

John seemed a bit confused by this request but he obliged. He didn't know what sewing had to do with him removing his clothing, but he was definitely intrigued. As John pulled his shirt off, he could feel Sherlock's eyes tracing his body up and down. He was trying not to smirk, mainly because he must admit, he did like the attention.

As he paced his clothing over to Sherlock, he saw him smile. Just as John was about to open his mouth to speak, he got interrupted by Sherlock's voice.

"This shirt, John. It's not going to be just yours anymore. This is going to be Cora's. I'm going to craft something from this, so not only she can use it, but so you can have a keepsake in the near future. Because what is yours, is hers. And this way, you will having something special from the both of us. When I'm finished with the crafting of this shirt, it will be the one thing to join us all together."

John looked almost saddened by the idea as he glanced over his shoulder to Redbeard. "Really? The only thing?" John asked.

Sherlock's free hand gently brushed against the hairs on John's arm as his mouth hovered over his lips. He still held Cora firmly in his left arm as his right arm gently rubbed John's side up and down. "Well, I certainly don't consider Redbeard the connection between the three of us. Do you?"

"No. But he is a part of this family. And our connections mean nothing if Redbeard isn't a part of it in someway."

"John...Redbeard is my best friend-"

"He's your only friend, Sherlock." John bluntly intervened cutting off Sherlock almost instantly. "But..he's also family. I thought you would know that better than anyone."

"You're right. He is. And trust me, I never forget it. But-"

Sherlock felt a sudden constriction take hold of his throat as he took a step backward, attempting to continue his speech. He let go of, John capturing Cora back into the protectiveness of his two arms as he placed her back into an ideal position.

"He has been my best friend since a little boy. And...I know one day, one day very soon...he's no longer going to be with us. He's getting old, John. We all age, and animals die sooner than humans. That's just the natural order of things. And before he goes, however long that might be- I want us to have a momentum of this day. And I want Redbeard to be here when it happens. So when we go searching through our memories, we will remember not just three members of our family- we will remember four."


	16. Capable Hands

There was only so long after his run in with Mycroft that Sherlock could hold off the inevitable. Aside from packing up their belongings and running yet again with his family, there was nothing but to bite down his lip and see his mother and father.

The home was the same; smelled the same, and looked the same, and the same heavy feeling that sat on his shoulders and pressed against his chest for years found its way back to him in only three footsteps through the front door.

It was never a weight; never a burden for Mycroft. He took on his responsibilities the way he knew he was meant to. When Father told Mycroft at the age of ten he would hold a position in the bank when he was old enough, Mycroft nodded and said _okay_ . When that day came and Father told Mycroft he would be head of Loans, Mycroft nodded and said _okay_.

Sherlock never said okay. He screamed at the top of his lungs that there was no passion, no reason to banking - it was boring, and he was never going to do it. He was going to be a scientist - teach, learn; love what he did. But that only got his beakers, and deconstructed gas lamps, and the medical tools he stole from their family physician taken away. So, the next time Father said Sherlock was going to be a banker, and the time after that, he said nothing.

There was a clank in the tea room, the unmistakable sound of cup being set down in saucer. Sherlock sighed and tried to shake away the heavy chains wrapping around him tighter with every glance and every breath. He dragged his shoes across the hardwood of the floor, through the sitting room, passed the reading room and into the tea room where he found his mother, idly sipping at the table.

"I expected you sooner." she said without a glance toward her son. "You didn't bring Cora."

"She's in good hands, I assure you."

"capable hands would be those of her mother."

"I have nothing to do with Irene's death. My being here wouldn't have made a difference."

"So, why did you come back, Sherlock? Was running away not what you thought it would be?"

"I didn't run away mother, but I came back so that one day my daughter won't have to."

"Always complaining about your life, Sherlock. You have had more opportunity than most, certainly more than myself growing up."

"I had no opportunity other than what you and father gave me."

Elizabeth sighed, "Fine. Raise your daughter as you wish. You've made it clear that you will anyhow."

"I will."

"But do make sure to find the girl a mother. You appear to need no help caring for yourself, but you will need help with Cora."

"I can care for her just fine."

There was another sigh, but his mother appeared to be done, having gone back to stirring her tea. Sherlock turned to leave, nothing left to say, but as his foot creaked against the old floorboards, he heard the spoon stop clinking, and her mouth open again.

"Sherlock dear, do you know what might have happened to our gardener, Mr. Watson? He disappeared around the same time you did. My ivy hasn't been the same."

"Dr. Watson, and no I'm afraid I don't. Pity about your ivy though."

"Mmm. Yes it is."

Sherlock waited until he heard the sip of tea pass through her lips, and made to leave again.

A wife. The idea was ridiculous. Even if Sherlock weren't the kind of man he was, he was almost certain he would never enjoy the company of a woman. They were, almost entirely, illogical, emotional, and self centered, and the thought of having to pretend to care for someone he didn't was exhausting.

But then, who said he had to care for her, or she care for him? Just a woman to care for Cora, to teach her to be feminine the way he and John couldn't.

It was a thought he would have to remember.

Sherlock could hear the cries from the bottom of the steps, loud wails that could shake the walls.

He raced toward the door of the flat, three steps at a time. The scene inside was as chaotic as the rhythm of Sherlock's heart: Cora screaming at the top of her lungs, John pacing back and forth with her in his arms, face beat red except for white streaks where tears of frustration had slid down his cheeks, and the land lady, Mrs. Hudson, standing with her arms crossed,helpless to do anything.

"Sherlock, thank God you're back. She hasn't stopped since you've left."

John's voice was hoarse and shaky. He crossed the room and handed Cora off into his arms.

"She's warm." Sherlock said, pressing his lips to her head.

"She has a small fever. I gave her a cool bath, and it's gone down some."

"How did she catch fever?"

"Oh, babies are always catching something or other." Mrs. Hudson said. "My son was sick his entire first year. But see now, she just wanted her father - or the other one at least."

"Mrs. Hudson, I'm not -"

"Oh hush, I'm old, but I'm not dead...or deaf. Your secret is safe with me "

Sherlock and John exchanged looks, and then a cautious smile.

It was true though, that Cora began to calm once she was in Sherlock's arms, and her eyes began to close, looking for sleep.

"Yes, well, thank you Mrs. Hudson. John and I appreciate your assistance, but I think we're fine now."

"Of course dears. If you need anything, you let me know."

When the door was closed behind her, Sherlock took Cora upstairs and laid her in her cot; pulled her pink blanket up over her frame.

He came back down to find John on the sofa with his head in his hands.

"I'm not entirely sure who had a worse time of it; me with my mother or you with Cora." Sherlock said, sitting down next to him, and running his finger where tears had dried.

"Your mother was always lovely to me, but I do believe I would take a screaming, sick baby over her any day."

Sherlock laughed. It wasn't hard to disagree with him.

"Will she be alright?" Sherlock asked.

"I'll keep an eye on her until the fever breaks, but I think she'll be fine."

"Lucky her, you're a doctor."

John smiled, "I suppose so."

They both sighed, and leaned against the back cushion of the sofa. It was barely time for supper, and they were both exhausted.

Perhaps some extra help wasn't that terrible of an idea after all.

"John, do you trust that I can do this?"

"I trust that _we_ can."

"Mmm."

Sherlock closed his eyes, and rested a hand on John's knee. It could be an hour or maybe ten minutes before Cora woke again, and he intended to sleep until then.


	17. Silence

The room was quiet. John was still sleeping, and surprisingly Cora was too. The sound of the wind trying to break into the window was somewhat refreshing. Ever since Cora had slipped into their lives, they hadn't heard anything so peaceful, so innocent in a very long time.

As Sherlock grasped his windowsill and gazed out into the typical overcast day he felt a pair of hands take hold of his hipbones.

The touch made him shudder as the unexpectant feeling of lips ghosting their way across his jugular soon became apparent.

"I didn't hear you wake." Sherlock said.

"Well….I didn't mean to sleep."

Sherlock let out a light breathed chuckle as he directed his attention onto John. That certain glimmer in his eyes was the thing he always wanted to see, and the thing he never wanted to let go of.

As John's mouth continued to kiss Sherlock's neck, begging for his attention. He could feel Sherlock's pulse fasten with his every slow but deliberate touch.

"Your pulse….it's fast. Is something wrong?" John asked.

Sherlock sucked in a deep breath as he slowly backed away from John's touch. Something he never thought he would find himself doing. Rejecting John nearly broke his heart as a saddened expression took over his face.

"Sherlock..what happened while you were away?" John asked, now feeling himself becoming panicked.

The air was silent as Sherlock looked John up and down. He remembered what his Mother said to him. How Cora needed a Mother and how her advice was to re-marry so she could have the best outcome in life. But was remarrying really the answer? After everything they have been through, was finding another woman really the answer to Cora's future?

Sherlock pinched the bridge of his nose as he squeezed his eyes shut. "John...my mother suggested that I remarry." Sherlock struggled to say as the complicated words slipped away from his tongue.

As soon as the words left his mouth for the world of hear, he tried so hard to get them back. But it was too late. They were free. And John's expression was punishment enough as a result.

"Remarry? Sherlock...no. You can't make me go through that again. What I had to endure while you were with Irene was like torture. Not again."

Sherlock was lost for words. He didn't want to hurt John. He never wanted to hurt him. And seeing him like this was horrid. It was like being stabbed in the heart a thousand times with a blunt knife, and the blade was twisting inside his vital organ forcing him to endure unspeakable pain in silence.

"John, as you know- my relationship with my mother is not the best. And if you think I am going to sit by and listen to her orders and do as she says. Then you are wrong."

Sherlock let out a breath of relief as he felt an invisible weight become lifted from his shoulders. The pressure was still there, but it was bearable. John made it bearable, and that's exactly how Sherlock liked it.

* * *

><p>As the day grew later, night was nearing as the sun began to set behind the clouds in the sky. The sound of pattering claws caused the two of them to direct their gaze from the beautiful sunset to the sight of Redbeard laying down on the floor - burying his snout between his paws<p>

"I think someone is hungry." John said before making his way over to Redbeard to give him a scratch behind his ears.

Redbeard just moaned and stared off into the distance. John's attention didn't seem to satisfy him like previously. He continued to just hold his black nose between the tufts of red fur. Whining and complaining at nothing.

"Is everything okay? What's wrong with him?" Sherlock asked.

John shook his head, standing up onto his feet as he took a step back. "I don't know. Nothing I hope. He just doesn't usually act like this. He loves our attention.."

Sherlock paced over to Redbeard and knelt down onto one knee by his side. He could see Redbeard's eyes staring into nothing, completely ignoring Sherlock's every touch. As the coarseness of his red fur became tangled between the crevices of his fingers he silently rose up onto his feet with concern riddled across his face.

He tried to hide it. But he couldn't. He didn't want John to see his vulnerability, nor his weakness. He wanted to hide it and keep it stored away. There were very few things in this world who could bring that emotion to his surface of his skin, and each and every one of them were in this room, and in this flat.


End file.
